Fragments of Reality and Dream
by valeriebean
Summary: Casey comes face to face with a long-dead daughter and a dose of poison. Snap shots and moments as he tries to distinguish reality from hallucinations. Expanded from a one-shot by reviewer request.
1. Fragments of Reality and Dream

Like ice coursing through his veins, the shock spread through John Casey's system and he knew he was dying. The blood drained from his face, leaving him chilled, and light-headed, but that faded quickly to heaviness and his quivering limbs threatened to collapse. Death was prettier than he'd imagined, standing there by the DVD's looking at him as he looked right back. She wore the face of his high-school sweetheart, who he'd knocked up, runaway with, and married all before the age of seventeen. His life wasn't flashing before his eyes so much as stalling on that single memory and the question of why she was here. His joints were locked; he couldn't reach out to touch her. She approached carefully, looking concerned, like she didn't know him, nor did she realize she was his grim reaper come to fetch him.

"Are you John Casey?" she asked.

He swallowed thickly and nodded, more shocked by her presence than his own death. He was vaguely aware of the guttural sound leaking out of his mouth as he struggled to speak her name.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Casey's eyes darted around the Buy More, wondering if anyone noticed his distress or her presence. Bartowski had crossed over to the Orange Orange. Most of the other kids that worked here were cheering a boxing match on the TVs. He wasn't dying. He was just surprised to see her. He had to get a grip.

Breathing intentionally, he looked at her again and forced his mouth to form the words of his long-lost lover. "Erika?"

She bit her lip and shook her head, her blue eyes filling with tears. The age wasn't right – the lines on her face. Casey's breath quickened as the impossibility came to life.

"Emily?!" It was barely a squeak of whisper above his pants for breath, and he couldn't get air in his lungs, his chest was so tight. It couldn't be. It was impossible. Unless it really was death come for him. And before she could confirm or deny the question, his world went black.

-----

His mouth felt dry and dusty, like it was coated with peach fuzz, and Casey coughed. His head ached, and his lungs felt like they'd turned to solid rock. A slap on his cheek kicked up an imaginary cloud of dust and he coughed again.

"John?" Anna knelt beside him, cradling his head. He hadn't opened his eyes, but she had a scent about her that reminded him of jungle animals and other deadly things. "Are you alright?"

He grunted, because his throat hurt too much to talk.

"Twenty bucks said he has some weird bacterial infection from the toe-incident and he'll lose the whole foot."

Casey planned to kill Jeff one day. And Lester, because the betting pool had opened and now all the staff were placing their wagers. How many were standing around him now, and what had happened? Was this just from seeing her again?

"Where is she?" he croaked, forcing his eyes open, and finding Anna hovering over him, caressing his face with a gentleness that ran counter to her hard-edged image.

"That customer?" Anna asked. "I think you scared her off."

"Did you see her? Where did she go?" He forced himself to his elbows, but the world exploded into stars. Bartowski came through the sliding glass doors, saw him there, and ran to his side.

"Casey," he said in concern, but didn't have a question to follow it up, so he just knelt there, hands in the air, afraid to touch him, lest he break something off. Casey wondered if he could really look so frail, but then, he was awfully content to leave his head in Anna's lap until the world didn't hurt so much. Something was not right. This reaction – it was too extreme, wasn't it. He must have been hit with a poison or some other danger. He needed to get Chuck out of here, and into the castle. But then, his head felt heavy now. His eyelids. Chuck's pleas filled his ears, but were lost.

-----

Casey limped around Chuck's bedroom, taking advantage of the quiet evening to replace some of the bugs that had copped out in the last few weeks. Big Mike had insisted he go home, because fainting salesmen were a liability. Casey played up the injury to his foot so it wouldn't seem like he'd passed out for no reason. Civilians were very sympathetic to gunshot wounds, probably because they didn't experience them monthly, weekly, or daily, as Casey sometimes did.

Finishing his circuit of the bedroom, Casey peeked into the hall, wondering if Devon would stay in the shower long enough for him to check the rest of the house. Not likely. Casey sat heavily on the bed and flexed his knee and ankle. The whole leg hurt from the toe right up to his belly, and he was miserable. He couldn't remember if he'd eaten today, but just the thought churned his stomach. Walker had Chuck locked down in the castle until they had time to review the security tapes. Casey figured he had another hour before he'd hear.

Curling his lip in annoyance, Casey rubbed the perspiration from his face and hobbled out the window.

"Are you a stalker?"

Casey yelped in surprise, turning and closing his hand around the gun concealed at the small of his back, heart pounding. As much as he told himself the danger wasn't real, there was comfort in the coolness of the metal on his skin.

"Don't pass out," she teased, holding up her hands. It was Emily, hiding behind the fountain, looking at him with an uncertain smile.

"Where did you come from?" he asked warily.

"Topanga." She stepped slowly around the fountain. He pulled his gun out and she stopped when she saw it.

"The local DMV was short-staffed," she explained quickly. "I saw your Crown Vic in the paper work … I didn't think it could be you, but you know me. So it must be –"

"I don't know you," Casey said firmly, slamming Chuck's window closed for emphasis.

"You know my mother," she insisted, reaching out to him, though her feet were planted for fear of the weapon.

"Knew," he corrected. "She's dead. And so are you."

Emily's jaw dropped with hurt, but Casey was tired of talking to a hallucination. He figured it was a side-effect of one of those drugs he'd been given for his foot, and that was not good. That could compromise the whole mission.

"I'm real," Emily insisted, pressing toward him. He pointed his gun again and she stopped.

"Want to test that?" Casey warned, and she held up her hands, looking around the court yard like hell's bats were circling them.

"Is it safe out here?"

"I'll ask the questions," Casey growled.

She wrapped her arms tightly across her chest and waited, eyes alert. Shifting foot-to-foot, she finally looked at him and prompted impatiently with a raised eyebrow.

Casey heaved in frustration, searching for the right question as a million different ones pummeled his mind. Was it really her? Why was she here?

"What happened to you earlier, at the Buy More?"

She trembled fearfully, looking into the darkness beyond the courtyard. "I saw you go down. I thought there was danger. How did you know my mother?"

Casey ignored the question. "Are you in danger?"

She nodded gravely, and brushed her too-long brown bangs away from her face. "Ever since I found your papers. Ever since I looked you up –"

The ping of a silenced gunshot echoed in Casey's ears and Emily fell, bleeding from her shoulder. His whole body was in seizure with hers, his mind tortured as he watched her dying, again. She was a hallucination – already dead. He didn't rush to put pressure on her wound; he just left her there and turned his back. Maybe the dream was warning him of real danger.

Keeping to the shadows, Casey circled the perimeter of the courtyard, seeking anything more unusual than the stack of magazines Morgan left in the bushes for when he waited there for extended periods of time. When he turned back, the fountain in the courtyard was basked in a pool of light and Emily's body was gone.

-----

Fire tore through his chest, pounding blood into his lungs with every heartbeat, life threatening to vomit itself out his mouth, his nose, and that gaping hole just above his heart. The world whirred with danger, but an arm hooked under his shoulders dragging him across the rough cobble stones, over the patches of weeds pressing between the seams, and into safety. He was too warm, too cold, and too much in shock.

He didn't feel the needle go in, but he felt the cool rush of fluids and fresh blood through his arm, and all of the sudden the noise and red faded into the sound of a single heart beat chirping on the monitor, and cool, dry air in his nose. It hurt to breathe.

Casey felt the crust on his eyes and at the corners of his lips and tried desperately to remember when, where, and how he'd been shot. He blinked until he felt moisture on his eyes, and then again until a tear escaped and rolled down his cheek, tickling in the stubble growing there. The single sensation cut through the scream of pain and soft, warm fingers caught the tear.

"Casey." White light cast her in silhouette, and her blonde hair glowed like a halo, but they'd been partners long enough for him to know who called. His body bowed in pain and her palm pressed gently and firmly against his chest.

"Bartowski?" he checked. The danger lurked in the shadows like a crouching panther ready to strike.

"Safe for now," she answered. "Do you know who shot you?"

Her tone was business-like enough that he knew no civilians were present, though the room seemed to be a clamor of rushing doctors, frantic nurses, and screaming machines.

"Where is she?" Casey begged. The dream – the death – he wanted her there. When it was her lying shot on the ground, he felt no pain.

"Who?" Sarah demanded. Her eyes were cold, her hands cupping his face, forcing him to look directly at her. His jaw ached, the muscles were so tense. "The other woman, who was with you? Who is she?"

"You saw her?" Casey cried incredulously. "You can't!"

Something wasn't right. The fire was gone from his chest, but the room still whirred. Everything became cold.

"Casey?"

"She's not real."

-----

Breath in.

Breathe out.

In. Out. The natural, painless rhythm of breathing permeated Casey's semi-conscious. Numbness faded into a bare hospital room with a single monitor chirping to the tune of his heartbeat. His fingers curled stiffly, and when he blinked, his eyelashes stuck together a little.

"Welcome back."

Ellie Bartowski came into the room, smiling gently, working matter-of-factly. She folded back the blanket over his foot, unwrapped a bandage, and set to cleaning. The foot was swollen and covered with red bumps that throbbed at the slightest pressure. Aside from the identity of his doctor, this world made significantly more sense than anything in recent memory. There was no hole in his chest and no ghosts from his past.

"I told you to stay off it," she chastised.

He laid his head against the pillow and ignored her, concentrating instead on not throwing up with each burning surge of pressure. He could feel the grit of dried bile on his tongue. She finished her work, rebandaged his foot, and reset the blanket. Then she wet a cloth and dabbed the perspiration from his face. This was a job for a nurse, not a doctor, but she had that same neighborly concern written in her actions that she'd had the day he was shot. It was in the way her eyebrows crinkled and her lips pressed together, like she wanted to gush in sympathy, but was holding back all the emotion and mechanically tending to what needed tending.

"Your fever broke this morning," she told him. "Are you in pain?"

It was a yes or no question, meaning she didn't expect him to speak in response. Simple, yet weighted with meaning. The answer was yes, but not in the way he'd expected. His foot burned and throbbed, but the sting had tempered since she placed the balm on it. It felt like tiny shuriken were coursing through his legs, but even that pain died off once past his hip. He felt dry, but not dehydrated, and he'd obviously been kept clean because nothing itched.

"My fingers are cold," he murmured, and her eyes widened in surprise.

"I don't think you could've given me better news," she told him, sliding her hand under the blanket and into his. It was so warm. "Squeeze my hand."

Had the infection paralyzed him? Pushing through the ache in his joints, Casey squeezed her hand once, and then he turned his hand inside of hers, until her warm palm coated his chilled fingers. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

-----

He couldn't conjure her face anymore – Emily. He didn't want to. The doctors kept asking him if he had family he wanted to call, but he couldn't very well bring his mother here, into his cover life. She was too proud of him, and she'd feel the need to set everyone straight on what a hero he was to this country – she didn't know that he specialized in killing. General Beckman would send someone soon enough to pose as his mother and take him back to the east coast. It was too neat and tidy – this infection scenario.

But Casey knew it was poison. Emily had said, when she was in the store, she suspected danger when he went down. There was no reason for a grown man to keel like that, even if he was seeing his dead child. Casey knew how to handle injuries, and he would've noticed the tell-tale signs of an infection. Emily knew it wasn't safe in the courtyard. He should've listened to her, should've believed she was real, should've gotten them out of harm's way.

"Lester's finder's fee is $50, but he's only holding the toe for another week," Chuck joked, pacing the room, looking at his shoes, at the blank TV, or at Sarah – never at Casey. He and Sarah had been visiting him every day, for their cover, because Ellie would get suspicious otherwise.

"There's an ebay auction already in progress, if you don't claim it by Friday," Chuck explained. "He has the thing on ice in the Buy More freezer. If I were you, I'd just let it go."

This was a joke to them. All a joke. He had some strange poison in him making him see not only dead people, but dead people who had aged thirty years in his head.

Sarah closed the door, then turned to face him, her face all business. "Casey, who is the woman?"

He was coherent now, and they knew he could talk, but it wasn't like he'd had time to sort out the reality from the hallucinations yet. Emily – or someone – had been talking to him in the courtyard. Maybe she hadn't disappeared, but rather she'd just been dragged into the Bartowski house when his back was turned. Devon had been home at the time. It made sense.

"I don't know," he answered.

She crossed her arms, and exchanged a look with Chuck.

"What!" Casey demanded.

"According to the Intersect, you two are connected."

"I don't know," Casey repeated fervently. "I keep seeing the face of someone long dead."

His eyes stung with tears at the notion. Not only were Erika and Emily dead, but so was he, in a way. Instead of grieving for them, he'd hollowed out his soul, replaced love with anger and resentment, and joined the marines. He replaced morality with duty, and the government had plenty of work for a man would kill cold, without question or remorse.

What if they were alive? Maybe they were only taken from him so that he would become a killer. If the Intersect knew –

Casey heaved and hyperventilated, the thoughts too overwhelming, his mind not big enough to hold the man he was and the man he'd become. He started screaming out her name, and the names of all the people he'd killed. Sarah clamped a hand over his mouth, urging him to keep quiet, but he couldn't stop. He shouted and shouted until a fresh needle went into his neck and darkness curtained the fragments of reality and dream.

-----

Casey drove to the Topanga DMV against his better judgment. Someone had finally listened to him on the poison theory and found an antidote, and he'd been released from the hospital that morning. It was still all surreal – he remembered being shot in the chest, but had no wound. Still, Emily had been right all along. Someone was chasing her to get to him, and he needed to protect her. He couldn't shake the memory of her thirty years ago, holding her in his arms while she was sick, laying her in the ground after she died. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

The DMV was crowded, as DMVs tended to be unless they were closed. A police officer stood by the door, turning away anyone that did not have an appointment, but Casey flashed his badge and strode past, willfully keeping the limp out of his step. It was strenuous just walking, and he could feel his throat going dry and his shirt getting damp with sweat.

"The end of the line is here," an angry patron protested as he cut through, trying to figure out who best to talk to about personnel. He picked someone at random.

"I'm looking for Emily Mareau. I was told she works here," he said, holding up his badge, so she wouldn't ignore him.

The woman flinched, and her fingers twitched against the keyboard. "I'm new," she whispered. "I don't know everyone yet."

Casey went to the next window and the next, but all he got were head-shakes and excuses. Maybe she worked a different shift than this lot. Maybe she'd been put in protective custody and they'd been warned to keep quiet. Or maybe he'd been hit with the poison dart first, and she'd only ever been a hallucination.

-----


	2. Dare to Hope

Dare to Hope

Casey sat hard on the leather seat of his Crown Vic, but didn't start the car. Maybe this was the wrong DMV. There was no DMV in Topanga, strictly speaking, and he'd chosen the Winnetka branch as the nearest equivalent. Maybe she worked at the one in Santa Monica. Or maybe she was the type of person who broke into DMV records with more illegal pursuits in mind.

Using the car computer, Casey did a quick search for Emily Mareau in Topanga, California. No hits. He broadened the search to all of California. Still nothing. Rubbing his face tiredly, Casey tried to remember if he'd done this before. Then he kicked himself for falling into the belief that Emily was real … again.

His phone rang, the sound reverberating through his head, initiating a migraine. He pounded frantically at the buttons trying to silence the damn thing, only to have it ring again a minute later.

Walker!

The Intersect!

Duty taking the forefront, he hit the talk button on the phone. "Casey."

"What are you doing in Winnetka?"

Casey whipped around in surprise, fully expecting to see Sarah standing outside his window, before he remembered that she knew the GPS track code on the car. Leaning his head back against the head rest, Casey pinched the bridge of his nose and weighed his responses.

"Checking a lead on that woman," he said finally. It was the only bit of reality he had – that there was, in fact, a woman that had been shot outside his apartment, and that according to the Intersect, she was somehow connected to him. All they had was the code name Tristavee, and knowledge of a few sealed files, and the ever-fading image of Emily in Casey's mind. Then there was the medical file that was slightly rushed, but had vanished in short order along with the woman. There was a slow effort to reconstruct things from the attending emergency staff without arousing suspicion, but given the ten car pile-up on the 5 that same evening, there weren't a whole lot of memories surrounding this one victim.

"Casey … Casey!"

Sarah was calling him back. Had he dozed? He wanted to sleep, but he grunted at her to show he wasn't gone yet.

"Did you remember something about her?"

"She said she came from Topanga," he mumbled. His foot was starting to throb.

"We pursued that lead already," Sarah said patiently. She was so gentle with him, but not in a patronizing way. "Are you safe to drive home?"

Casey wrinkled his nose, offended by the question, but the annoyance just made his head hurt more.

"When did you eat last?"

Now she was crossing the line to mother hen!

"I just needed to check!" he said defensively. "I had the day free."

"You shouldn't be driving," she said firmly. "Stay there. I'm coming to get you."

Casey huffed angrily. She wasn't seeing her dead child! She didn't understand the driving need to be sure – absolutely sure. And Casey didn't dare tell her his reasons. If Emily was in danger, then telling Walker would only increase that danger. If she wasn't even real, then speaking her name would get Casey benched faster than he could draw his gun – and Casey was a fast draw.

A tap on the window roused Casey and he jerked awake, nearly banging his head on the steering wheel as stars exploded behind his eyes. The police officer that had been blockading the DMV entrance was knocking on his window. Confused (mostly about when he'd fallen asleep) Casey rolled down the window.

"You can't loiter here, sir," the officer opened diplomatically.

Without a word, Casey found his NSA badge and held it up. The officer pursed his lips, more annoyed at being outranked than anything else.

"My partner's on her way," Casey assured, even though he had no idea if it was true. His phone had fallen between the seat crack.

"Are you ill?" the officer asked.

"Fine," Casey said sharply, jamming his fingers into the crack to retrieve his phone. "Fine. Is there a good place to eat around here?"

-----

Casey was glad he made it to the diner without crashing his beloved car. Something about driving or walking kept him going far better than sitting or talking did. Eating helped too. He sprang for the buffet, glad to be walking, glad to be shoveling food down his mouth, into his growling stomach. Once through the first plate, he could take his medicine. (He'd tried taking the pills on an empty stomach once, with disastrous consequences.) He stopped mid-chew, when he heard her voice.

"Why did you come here?"

Casey took two more deliberate chews, then swallowed so slowly he nearly choked. Goosebumps covered his skin, starting on his neck, going down his arms, tingling all the way to his navel, making his hair stand on end. Carefully, he reached into his pocket for the zip-locked bag with his pills. No sense waiting for the second plate. He should've been paying closer attention to the time. Keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched, and his back firmly toward the ghost, he shook out the three different pills he needed and swallowed them in one gulp.

"What are those for?" she asked. She – someone – was still there.

"Was poisoned recently," he said dismissively, keeping his attention on his plate and the well-crafted chicken and black bean salad he was eating. "Not that it's any of your business."

His head was clearing now. Soon the ghost would dissolve into reality – a curious bus boy, perhaps. Even if he was talking to himself, he didn't care.

"Please, look at me," she begged, coming around so that her form cast a shadow over his plate. He didn't look at her. She waited him out. It figured she'd get a double dose of stubborn obstinance – one from him, one from her mom. Even if she'd only gotten her mom's she could outlast him.

"I went to the DMV," he told the shadow, hoping he could make her go away with facts as to her non-existence. "You weren't there."

"May I sit?"

Casey thought a moment, and finally shrugged.

And there she was, paler and more haggard than before, brown hair hanging down so it covered her ears, left arm in a sling. She waited patiently for him to finish his salad, and did not protest when he immediately slid out of the booth and went to the buffet for round two. Resting his hand securely on the reality of the stacked plates, still warm from being washed, Casey took a few deep breaths and turned back to the booth. She was still there, waiting patiently, eyes alertly screening the room for danger, right hand absently adjusting the sit of the sling across her chest.

The meds reached Casey's stomach, making him nauseous, and he knew it would only get worse if he didn't eat something. Looking toward the door made him feel like a coward, and any thought of calling Walker and demanding an ETA made him feel like an invalid. So he loaded his plate with grilled chicken, steaming mashed potatoes, and lots of gravy, and went back to the booth.

The waitress had brought Emily a drink and she sipped slowly, turning the glass in her hand, tracing the condensation with her fingers, leaving a wet ring on the table.

"I didn't say I worked at the DMV," she said quietly. "I said they were short-staffed."

Casey nodded. She could easily be a hallucination. So far, she hadn't fed him any scenarios he couldn't have made up on his own.

"I wasn't going to look for you again. Not after …" She sighed and nodded toward her arm. "I'm just tying up some loose ends and then I'll disappear."

This time, he looked at her. Her blue eyes were downcast, her fingers tapping the table in the same fidgety manner he had. Whether it was a person going under cover or a ghost warning that she'd never visit again, he suddenly felt compelled to look – to take her in.

"Emily."

She met his eye, tears brimming in her own. "I don't know what to call you."

Casey's breathing quickened. "Tell me who shot you. Who poisoned me?"

Her mouth opened and closed with no words and her face contorted with pain. "I don't know who they are. I don't actually see them; I just feel it … like I'm being hunted."

Casey reached out, daring to hope, and placed his hand over hers. Waves of sorrow, guilt, and lost forevers washed between them, threatening to drown them. But she was like him. They both steeled themselves and pulled their hands away awkwardly. He looked back to the buffet and she looked out the window.

"All this mess because I saw a piece of paper and dared to hope you were real."

Casey huffed and curled his lip bitterly. "You don't drag skeletons from the closet unless you're prepared to join them."

She balked, her eyes flashing fire. "You think I regret this?"

"You have a hole in your shoulder," he pointed out.

"In my shoulder, yes!" she repeated. "Not in my heart. Not anymore!"

He gave her a look, warning her not to get hysterically loud, and she dropped her voice to a whisper.

"Now I know you're real," she continued. "You're more than this picture I carry with me –"

"What picture?" he interrupted. Pictures were bad. They connected you to people and made you weak. He needed to teach her that.

She pulled the photo from her wallet and handed it to him. He nearly died just from seeing it. There he was, eighteen and smiling like a goon, leaning against a black Crown Vic, his ten-month-old Emily in his arms, wearing a candy-striped shirt and reaching up to touch his face. The car wasn't his. He'd found a job at a local dealership. That had been his plan, to support his family.

"Where did you get this?" he asked breathlessly, his hand ghosting over the picture, his fingers pinching the edges to convince himself it was real.

"Gramma's attic," she said. "Gramma Vero. That's where I found the papers – found my real name."

She trailed off wistfully, biting back tears so fiercely, he feared she would break skin.

"Emily," he said again. He felt stronger, just speaking her name to truth. "Who is protecting you? The hospital records –"

"I have friends," she interrupted curtly, bringing her fingernails to her lips, but not biting. She had his eyes. It took his breath away to notice.

"Who are your friends?" he persisted. Was she white world or black – he didn't even know.

"The same ones who are getting me clear of this mess," she said, standing abruptly. "Please don't look for me. Not until you've figured out who is trying to kill us."

"I –"

He wanted to tell her he loved her always; he wanted to beg her to stay. But she silenced him with a hand on his shoulder, gave him a gentle squeeze, and then she disappeared.

-----

Casey burped as he gulped down his third soda in a single hour. It was his downfall at all-you-can-eat buffets, but he didn't make the rules and he didn't believe in God strongly enough to care about the occasional gluttonous binge.

When Agent Walker entered, it was with a mixed eye-roll and sympathetic sigh. Bartowski was a half step behind her, which brought an eye roll from Casey. He told himself that they had a mission, and they couldn't leave Bartowski alone, even though the truth was that they needed a second driver since he was temporarily forbidden and was by no means leaving his car behind. He didn't really know if he cared.

She had his eyes.

"You look happy," Chuck said jovially, sitting across from him and reaching for the bread on Casey's plate.

"Scratch that," he amended, putting the bread back when Casey growled at him.

Sarah disappeared into the kitchen, probably to ask his waitress if he'd been behaving oddly. That would be a trip – figuring out which parts of today were hallucinations.

"Ellie had a fit when she found out you drove here," Chuck said, leaning back and sprawling his arms over the back of the bench. "She's going to find you tonight and take your keys."

Casey glowered and kept eating his mashed potatoes.

"If I were you, I'd admit defeat and bring them over yourself. Your living room doesn't exactly scream 'guy-next-door'- what with the weapons, the bullet-proof vests, the random tactical gear –"

"She doesn't work at the DMV," Casey interrupted, talking through a mouthful of green beans. "Might be a temp."

"Miss Tristavee?" Chuck checked. He moved the coasters around, fiddled with the napkins, and then pulled a pen from his pocket and started doodling.

When Agent Walker came, she slid into the booth next to Casey, carrying a salad plate and a cup of coffee. Instead of feeling crowded, it made Casey feel safe – like they were just his friends coming to join him for lunch, and they weren't judging him for wanting a ride home. He didn't want either of them driving his precious car, and he didn't know which he'd choose to spend the ride with, but now, as they sat here and ate, he felt safe.

"Did you meet her here?" Sarah asked gently. "Tristavee?"

Casey shrugged noncommittally. He was getting full and his foot ached. Slouching back against the seat, he folded his arms across his chest, and propped his foot on the opposite bench. Chuck scooted out of the way without even looking up.

"What did she say?"

"Some one else it protecting her," Casey answered. "She's going to disappear where it's safe and leave it to us to find the shooter."

"In other words, back off," Sarah said with a chiding smile.

Casey shrugged again.

"I got the surveillance tapes from the manager," Sarah continued. "Soon we'll have a face for the name."

She wasn't asking him to describe her, even though he'd just seen her. They'd run that loop too many times since yesterday, and she knew it would go nowhere. Casey leaned his head against the window, arms crossed, staring contentedly outside as Walker finished her plate. Sarah ate slowly and Chuck filled two napkins with Call of Duty strategy notes, while rambling amicably. When they left, Casey handed his keys to Chuck and laid peacefully in the back seat of his car. His friends were here and he was safe.

-----

They hit a bump and Casey was jostled awake. Quiet conversation wafted from the front seat – tactical scenarios. Instincts kicking in, Casey's eyes snapped open, seeking danger, and his hand reached for the gun strapped to his ankle. The amateurs always missed that one in a weapon's search, usually stopping when they found his knife.

Neither weapon was there. Tensing, he evaluated the situation critically. He wasn't bound, and he recognized the back seat of his own car. His stomach was full and slowly, the hazy afternoon was coming into focus. Chuck was driving him home, and from the sound of it, discussing video game strategy with Morgan.

With a twisted grin and a glint in his eye, Casey rose stealthily from the bench seat, staying cautiously clear of the rearview. When he was perfectly positioned right next to Chuck, he said, "Boo!"

Chuck yelped like a girl and Casey sat back, laughing. It was just too easy with that kid. Chuck's face flushed and he signed off with Morgan, turning his full, pouting, attention to Casey, via the rearview mirror.

"How long was I out?" Casey asked, wishing the car were wider so he could extend his leg across the back seat.

"Maybe an hour," Chuck answered, still bitter about getting scared. He motioned toward the stop-and- … well, stopped traffic. "As you can see, we haven't gone far."

"Agent Walker?" he checked. She'd taken his gun, he guessed, but he had more in the trunk, if only he could remember how to fold down the seat.

"She's a few cars back." Chuck checked the rearview instinctively and Casey looked out the back window directly until he spotted her car two cars back and one lane over. She was talking on her phone, too, though probably not about video games.

Casey checked the clock in the car, trying to remember when he'd last taken those pills and if it was time for more. Nothing hurt, but the wrap on his foot itched and he wanted to clean and change the bandage. He wasn't sure he had all he needed in the car, but decided it would be fun just to unwrap the foot and gross out Bartowski. He went back and forth about the whole thing – having a battle scar versus having a completely lame reason for losing his toe. He felt a little better knowing that the shooter was a trained assassin who knew he was NSA, wanted to incapacitate him, and was only pretending to be a buffoon. But Casey preferred knowing his enemies before they shot at him, and he was overly critically when they got the jump on him like that. Now, in a very short span, he'd had his toe shot off and he'd been poisoned in his own Buy More! It was time to change surveillance modes.

"… and in the end, they're just following him everywhere," Chuck rambled. He'd been talking pretty constantly, decidedly not watching Casey change the bandage on his foot.

"Casey, are you even listening to me?" Chuck asked, irritably.

"Beautiful Mind," Casey said, using the little bit that he'd heard to deduce what movie plot Chuck was quoting. The kid had a habit of reciting, in great detail, the plots of any and every movie, TV show, or commercial he ever saw. Casey had figured it was a form of torture that nerds afflicted on the rest of the world, but the added intel did help whittle down the NetFlicks list considerably.

"I'm not schizophrenic," Casey said firmly.

"Then why won't you tell anyone what Tristavee looks like?"

Casey glared threateningly, but Chuck was looking at the non-moving traffic. "Maybe it's none of your business."

"Not even a hint," Chuck pestered. "She reminds you of someone you know."

"You know enough government secrets to get you killed on a normal day," Casey countered. "Do you really want to add this one?"

Chuck faltered and stuttered the way he did when he wanted Casey to open up and be sentimental about something. "She means something to you. And not the hard-edged, angry you; the soft, sugar-bear you that you don't like to hold onto. You store it remotely and access it via satellite, and you definitely don't have that whole Verizon network."

It was true. Emily wasn't even a part of him anymore. She couldn't be, else he would go crazy. He was a marine washout and a killer, and whether he admitted it or not, this Intersect mission was as close as he'd come to saving the world in a long while. When this mission ended and he killed Chuck, he would just be nothing again. No one. And Sarah's video tape surveillance would prove what he'd known all along. None of it was real. Casey shuddered and cut the satellite feed from his soft, sugar-bear side.

"First," Casey warned threateningly, "Do not ever mention, hint at, or think of the words sugar bear in context with me. Second, Tristavee is not our concern. We need to know who shot me at the Buy More, if my cover has been compromised, and if you are in danger. There is no Tristavee. There never was."

Chuck nodded, swallowing hard. Then he held up a wallet-sized photo between his fingers. "Casey, who is this?"

-----

Black.

White.

Stars.

Breathe! Casey, breathe!

Worlds collided – the real with the imaginary. Casey snatched the photo from Chuck, his eyes going wide, his heart racing.

"Where did you get this?" Casey demanded, his hands trembling over the face of his younger self holding his baby girl.

Chuck looked at him, so alarmed that he threw the car into park right in the midst of the unmoving traffic. "At the diner. It was on the bench when we left."

It felt like his heart was beating in his throat, threatening to vomit itself onto the very fine leather upholstery. Casey couldn't breathe. He had a thousand thoughts, but couldn't form words. He vaguely heard Chuck calling after him as he jumped out of the car, staggering onto the freeway. The asphalt cut brutally into his bare foot, the wound still exposed. He didn't care. He needed –

"Casey!"

Agent Walker jumped out of her car, weaving through the other vehicles to get to him. He ran towards her, holding the photograph in both hands lest it disappear.

"It's her!" he said breathlessly, stumbling as the pain in his foot reached critical and he thought his head would explode. "It's my Emily!"

-----


	3. Tristavee

Tristavee

Casey lay on the couch of the Bartowski's apartment, foot propped on a pillow, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, concentrating hard on not humming the tune that floated through his head. Ellie had the good drugs and had numbed him happy because he'd refused outright to go to the hospital. It was dangerous to be in this state and he garnered his torture resistance training because if he got too relaxed, he'd compromise his cover. There were too many people in the house.

"Am I hearing this right, John?" Devon balked, coming out of the kitchen with a banana and some kind of power juice. "You jumped out of your car in the middle of the freeway?"

Casey increased the pressure of his fingers on his nose and scrunched his eyes shut, willing his temper to stay in check.

"It was a parking lot," Chuck spoke on his behalf. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, as though he were defending Casey.

"A.k.a. the 101 at rush hour," Devon laughed in agreement.

"Barefoot," Ellie added, critically. "Why, John? What were you thinking?"

Casey sighed and forced himself to sit up, despite the heaviness of the meds. He'd had enough. "If it's all the same to you, I think I'll go home."

"No, it is not all the same. It's not even similar," Ellie said, rushing to him, partly apologetic, mostly mother hen. He let her push him back against the pillow and didn't even swat her away as she fussed about. "You're going to get yourself killed if you don't give yourself time to recover."

"Chasing after that shooter in the courtyard – also not wise," Morgan chimed in, entering from the back hall armed with a grape soda. It annoyed Casey how black and white they saw the world. No one had criticized Devon for risking his life and going into the courtyard to drag Tristavee inside. Casey yawned to show he planned to ignore their criticisms rather than respond.

Ellie sighed in resignation, satisfied for the moment that Casey wasn't currently dying. Folding her arms across her chest, she took to pacing the space between the living room and the kitchen, wanting wine and trying to resist. Devon intercepted her, stilling the nervous motion with a warm embrace.

"Did they ever find that shooter?" Ellie asked quietly, looking both scared and vulnerable. Morgan sank on the floor next to Chuck and initiated a conversation about how the X-men would have responded to the increased crime in the neighborhood, and Chuck responded lightly with more confidence than he had any right to given what he knew about the situation.

Casey's chest tightened, knowing it wasn't even up to the local police to figure out what happened that night. It was up to him. And as much as Tristavee needed to be out of the equation, she was an integral part. He sighed and closed his eyes to the noise of the room. When he was in his own place eavesdropping on this crowd, there was so much more control – like he was the life guard staying perched over the pool. Now he was stuck here in the crowd and he felt like he could drown in the chaos. When he heard the knock on the door, he immediately reached for his gun, but Chuck stilled his hand. Casey had too many drugs in his system and instinct was taking charge.

Agent Walker entered, smiling uncertainly at the gathering. "I didn't realize there was a party," she said. "I would've brought wine."

"We're practicing abstinence tonight," Ellie said, looking at Casey as she said it. He'd asked for scotch earlier and she'd said no because it would interact negatively with what she'd give him.

"That's really not necessary," Casey told her.

"Oh, thank God," she squeaked, ducking into the kitchen to find a glass.

Walker nodded slightly, then made some excuse about finding something she'd left in Chuck's room. Chuck jumped up to follow her back, telling Morgan to stay put by the couch. Casey gave them a few minutes, then stood up and followed them down the hall.

"Hey –" Devon said, stepping in front of Casey in face-off, poking a finger at his chest.

Casey's fist clenched. "Can."

It was the simplest excuse, and Devon raised and eyebrow, but stepped aside. "Pee sitting down, bro."

-----

Agent Walker had news; else she would've waited until morning. She'd watched the tapes, contacted D.C., and done all the things he was so desperate to do, except he'd been drugged into a stupor. He barely had his head on as it was, and he sat heavily on the chair at Chuck's desk and rolled it closer to the bed so he could prop his foot up.

"What did you find?" he asked.

"5'8" white female with dark hair."

"And blue eyes," he added eagerly. She had his eyes!

"That describes about 5% of the female population," Chuck commented, but Casey was too excited about the prospect even to glare at him.

"She must have known where the camera was," Sarah said, in that quiet, reluctant voice she used when she was trying to make the most out of a less than ideal situation. "She kept her face turned."

Casey furrowed his brow. "No," he said. "No she didn't. She was looking everywhere, checking for danger."

Sarah was silent for a moment, glancing sideways at the wall, searching for the words she wanted. "I've sent an agent to pair the waitress with a sketch artist."

Casey's jaw dropped in frustration. He'd been hesitant to provide a description because he thought he'd hallucinated her, but now he had the picture and he was sure of what he'd seen. "I know what she looks like! Hell, give me a pencil. I can draw her from memory!"

"Casey –"

"What?" he cut her off sharply.

She pressed her lips together and placed her hands on her hips, her eyes searching the room as if the words she wanted were on the posters hanging on Chuck's wall. "I looked into the records for Emily Mareau –"

"It's her mother's name," Casey explained quickly, sitting forward. "She didn't change it."

"I know," Sarah said quietly.

"We have to be careful," Casey said, dropping his voice. "This thing runs deep. Who would do something to a civilian –"

"Casey, listen," she said, urgent and quiet. He didn't want to hear, but she kept talking. "There is no conspiracy. Emily is dead."

The news hung in the air like a dead cow in a butcher shop – raw, brutal, but completely expected. Casey stared at her, blinking occasionally, mind whirring but body frozen.

"I'm sorry, man," Chuck said, placing a hand on Casey's shoulder.

The physical contact knocked the pent up thoughts from his mind and Casey spoke quickly. "We drove to D.C. for Reagan's inauguration."

Sarah's head tilted sympathetically. "John –"

"No. No!" he shouted. "You can't keep taking her away!"

Jumping out of the chair, Casey went for the window, needing to get back to his apartment and sort through the intel himself. Chuck jumped on his back to stop him, but Casey tossed him aside easily. The helpless yelp as Chuck rolled off the bed onto the floor broke through the dementia that had taken hold of Casey and he paused with one foot out the window.

Pounding the window frame once with his fist, Casey sat slowly on the sill and surveyed the scene inside Chuck's bedroom. Sarah stood patiently, not trying to stop him, looking at him with pity. Chuck checked his head for bumps and whined about getting thrown. Casey had to protect the Intersect. Had to. It was his duty, and he knew that this choice was the right one. He couldn't screw this up.

Seeing he'd calmed, Sarah came to the window and tugged on his elbow to get her to move, but he swatted her away, swung himself back inside, and sank to the floor. Emily was dead and someone was screwing with him. The poison, the suggestive photograph, the wild goose chase to the DMV – it had to be an effect of the toxins in his system. It was time to pare down the situation, like he'd done for Chuck. The most important question was whether Casey was a danger to the mission. The mission was his first duty.

The answer was a firm, resounding yes. Tristavee had followed him to this complex and so had her would-be killer. She'd been shot just outside this very window, and a stray bullet could easily have hit the Intersect. Until the shooter and his motives could be determined, Casey was endangering the asset by staying put.

Next question – had they been compromised to the point of requiring Chuck's extraction? Not likely. Casey had been the target and the intel on Emily predated his entrance to the service. This could be a very old vendetta and was not likely related to his current mission. Chuck was fine for now.

Casey, however, needed to be extracted. His cover was clearly compromised and he had so many drugs in his system that he would very easily crack under torture. Question next, how deep did this conspiracy go –

"Casey, I'm sorry," Sarah said gently, kneeling next to him, but not looking at him.

Scratching his eyebrow, Casey looked at her, briefly considering her part in all of this. He had gone under cover a number of times in his career, but never with a partner. Usually, the only person who knew anything about him on an assignment was his handler. He always thought he'd preferred working alone, but there was something about having another person on the job with him. It wasn't like having a handler who was simply aware of his double life. She shared the double life.

"Lock down," he said softly. "You have to take me to the castle."

She nodded, understanding the request. "There are NSA safe houses in the area," she said. "The castle isn't designed for housing."

Casey's jaw clenched, not wanting to express doubt in the NSA because he'd devoted his life to that service. "The Intersect is safest if I'm in isolation."

Sarah nodded again. She understood. A handler would not have. A handler would've extracted both Chuck and Casey. Sarah understood, because she was here living this double life with him.

"Tomorrow, then," she agreed softly. "Now get off the floor. I hear Devon coming to look for you."

-----

Casey liked the castle better than any NSA safe house he'd ever stayed in. It was incredibly secure, had a direct link to D.C., and housed an insanely complete arsenal of weapons and spy gadgets. All his surveillance fed into here, giving him an excellent eagle-eye on the Buy More while saving him the annoyance of working there. He had appropriated a mini-fridge from Buy More to round out the complete lack of amenities, and he thought vaguely about finding a couch, but he didn't want to desecrate the castle by making it too homey.

After three hours in lock-down here, he already felt saner. Every element of this place centered on the Intersect and the mission and helped him focus on what needed doing. First on the list was to review the surveillance footage from the day he'd been poisoned. Walker had already checked them for signs of the attacker, but Casey wasn't looking for that so much as a way to improve surveillance overall. He needed to find the hole that the person had slipped through.

Of course, he also wanted to review the restaurant tapes, because it didn't seem right that they had missed Emily – Tristavee – completely … unless the feed was aimed only at the door. That would make sense, excepting the fact that nothing made sense, really. She hadn't declared her identity and fought to convince him. He'd just seen her and known. He tried to recall if something had happened earlier that morning that would've triggered the hallucination of Erika, but everything was so hazy and fragmented and he couldn't remember what questions he'd asked or what answers she'd given.

"Lunch time!"

Casey jumped out of his chair and drew his gun before Chuck had even finished the declaration. Chuck was too accustomed to the reaction to flinch, and he came nonchalantly down the stairs, armed with two white, plastic grocery bags. Holstering his weapon, Casey cleared off some space on the desk to set up the food.

"Did you find anything new?" Chuck asked, setting the bags down and setting up a simple picnic. Casey's jaw slackened in surprise – he'd been expecting pizza or Chinese takeout at the fanciest.

"What is this?" Casey asked, his hand ghosting over the spread – a loaf of wheat bread, a jar of spicy mustard, a pound of deli-sliced ham, a bag of apples.

"I, uh," Chuck stammered, looking uncertainly from Casey to the food. "It's what you always pack for lunch. I can get something else –"

"This is fine," Casey said, keeping his eyes averted as he made himself a sandwich. Chuck wasn't allowed to know him this well, and every time the kid made simple gestures like this one, it made it all the harder for Casey to do his job, because Casey knew that kill order was coming.

Chuck knelt backwards on one of the chairs and spun slowly, keeping uncharacteristically quiet as Casey constructed the perfect sandwich and then put the perishables in the mini-fridge. Casey could tell that Chuck had a question burning a hole in his mind, but he wasn't going to invite anything. He was alarmed when Chuck pulled the photo from his pocket – the one of Casey with Emily.

"I thought you didn't want the minivan and the Costco runs," Chuck said softly, looking at the picture like it held the keys to his future happiness.

Casey snatched the photo harshly and sat down, finding a lighter on the shelf near the other incendiaries and burning the picture.

"Don't want. Not never had."

This picture was dangerous in Chuck's possession, and it only served as a reminder of how Tristavee had screwed with his head. Tristavee… Chuck had flashed on that name … how, unless…

"Why haven't you given a description of Tristavee?" Casey asked. "You flashed on her."

"I flashed on a tattoo on her ankle."

Casey pressed his lips together in frustration, letting the last charred remnants of the photo fall to the table.

"What did the tattoo look like?"

Chuck shrugged and spun the chair again. "Blue tear drop, a dove, and few numbers embedded in the wing. Sarah looked into it already."

Chewing thoughtfully, Casey reclined in his own chair and stared at the ceiling. He had nothing to do here but check and double-check the work that was already done, searching for a new leaf to turn.

"Casey, why would Tristavee pretend to be … you know?" He couldn't say the word daughter any more than Casey could. It was too unfathomable. "Where would she get that photo?"

Tristavee had stolen the identity, for certain … nearly certain. Either that or Tristavee's parents had stolen the papers to create new identities for themselves and the girl had misinterpreted the documents when she'd come across them.

"She said she found the papers in Gramma Vero's attic," Casey recalled, thinking he should write it down before it slipped his memory again.

"Vero as in short for Veronica?" Chuck asked.

Casey jumped out of his chair, sending it toppling, and ran for the computer. "Vero as in long for 'vee.' Trista Vero!"

Accessing the CIA database, Casey ran the name, but he didn't have to wait for the computer's encoded response. He recognized the sign of a flash in Chuck's eyes.

"Code name, Sad Truth," Chuck whispered, his knuckles gripping the chair so hard they turned white. "I know where she is."

-----


	4. Gramma Vero's Attic

Gramma Vero's Attic

The two-story house was austere and non-descript, not drawing any attention to itself by color, keep, or foot traffic. Casey expected as much from a document forger working both the black and white market. Trista Vero, while supplying new identities to criminals, had also supplied new identities to dozens of witnesses under Federal protection where conventional protection programs failed. Because the criminals were notably white collar and non-lethal, the indiscretions were overlooked by the government. It was no stretch to believe that Emily's identity and papers had found their way through here, since identities were easier to recycle than create. It was the photo that Casey wanted to ask about. The photo and the tattoo that Chuck had flashed on. A seasoned forger like Trista Vero would know better.

There was no getting out of the castle without Agent Walker, and Casey didn't trust his own sanity enough to go on his own anyway. They were tracking two possible targets – one who shot poison darts, one who shot bullets – and he needed the back-up. Plus, without serious violence, there was no way to prevent Chuck from blabbing anyway, and he needed the kid's intel.

"Should we be here?" Chuck asked uncertainly. "Don't the people that come through this house want to keep their secrets?"

"You could wait in the car," Casey shrugged.

"Learn from past mistakes," Chuck said dryly, opening the door, letting in the bitter cold. They were parked on a steep hill in the mountains just north-east of the valley. There was no driveway and the cars were wedged in bumper to bumper on a street that barely qualified as two-way. Casey had pulled in front of a fire hydrant half a block from the place, but it offered an easy escape if they were being chased and they were far enough from the target to avoid any surveillance, if there was some on site. It was significantly colder at this altitude, and Casey reached into the back for his jacket and, since he had the cover, a few more guns.

"Chuck, stay behind me," Sarah warned as they made their way up the block.

A few dozen broken, concrete steps led up to the rickety, wooden porch. White paint chipped off the trim, but the blue paint on the house looked fresh. A kicked in screen door dangled from its hinges and the front door looked like it had been broken down and boarded up a dozen times over. The shininess of the nails in the plywood spoke to how recently the last board had been placed. In the upper right hand corner of the door frame, etched into the wood, was the symbol Chuck had described – the dove, the tear drop, and the numbers 873. It wasn't the house number.

"Do you want me to knock?" Walker prompted.

Casey released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The plan was basic reconnaissance, and with no current signs of danger, they would play this out with minimum violence. Forcing himself to release his holstered gun, Casey shot Sarah a withering look and knocked.

Chuck picked at his fingers, managing to make himself annoying while they waited. Casey curled his lip but suppressed the growl of irritation he felt stirring. Nothing was happening.

Chuck reached for the handle on the screen door. "Try the –"

Casey grabbed his wrist harshly, and pushed him back. "It's customary to check for traps before letting yourself in."

"Right," Chuck nodded, swallowing hard. "Well, that would make sense. Why don't you check for traps and I'll wait …"

He looked back to the car, but settled for off the wooden porch and half way down the steps. With a nod, Casey and Sarah split, checking around the house for any sign of things that would scatter their limbs across the block, or do something equally unpleasant. Nothing about the house made it conspicuous. He wouldn't have even guessed minor misdemeanors occurred in the vicinity of this place. The emptied trash cans were lined up at the side of the house; a garden hose was disconnected from the spigot, but hung neatly on a hook; a dried Christmas tree had been de-boughed and lain in the back yard, looking like it was waiting to be chopped into fire wood. Were it not for the symbol on the front door, Casey would've thought they had the wrong place.

"Looks okay," Walker said, coming around the house from the other side. She had her weapon in hand, but not at ready.

"Let's go in," Casey said.

-----

"Federal agents. Make your presence known," Walker said loudly, as she went room to room, gun cocked. Casey could hear her going through the lower floors as he went up the stairs, both yelling 'clear' as soon as they'd established the relative emptiness of every nook. The inside of this house had plenty of places to hide, which made Casey nervous, and he would've called for back-up, except that they hadn't briefed General Beckman on this side mission of theirs. To do so would have involved hinting at the hallucinations, the self-extraction, and the question of Casey's sanity. Rather than presenting the questions and asking for permission, Casey figured he should wait for answers and ask for forgiveness. He'd given Walker that leniency often enough that she would return the favor without arguing.

The inside of the house was only in slightly better repair than the outside. It looked more like a hotel than a home, with a few thematic decorations and no personal photos. The only thing Casey could tell about the decorator was that they liked stenciled wood. Everywhere he looked, lining the door frames and walls, different shapes were stenciled.

"Ground floor is clear," Walker said by radio.

"Up stairs, too," Casey agreed. There were four rooms on the second floor. Two were small bedrooms, as austere and lacking in personality as the rest of the house. The third was an office with the basic home utility bills, random books, and post-it notes that any civilian would have. "I have a computer up here. Bring in the nerd."

Casey stepped out of the office and nudged open the door to the fourth room. It was empty. Completely empty. There were empty shelves tacked to the wall and outlines of dust where the contents had been. There was an open closet with more empty shelves. Indents on the carpet showed where files cabinets may have been. There were a few hairs, dust bunnies, and mud stains, but whoever had cleaned this out hadn't even left an empty file folder or torn scraps of paper on the floor.

"Walker, Bartowski," Casey barked into his radio, irked that the were taking so long. He suddenly felt the urgent need for answers on top of the sinking feeling that they'd all been stored in this now empty room.

"Something's wrong," Walker said briskly over the radio.

The sinking feeling found added weight and a deep trench to fall into. Casey ran down stairs, and recognized the look on Chuck's face as that vacant, cross-eyed thing he did when he was flashing. Only instead of lasting a split second, it just kept going. Words tumbled from his mouth, too mumbled to be understood, too persistent to be interrupted. Walker called his name, grabbing his face, trying to catch his eyes. He stood half inside the door, half out, his spine straight, his body stiff.

"Chuck, look at me," Walker ordered, but he didn't seem to hear. He was transfixed on the stenciled patterns on the wall.

Casey reached out and covered Chuck's eyes with his hands. The kid grabbed onto his fingers and forearm, but it seemed like he wanted support more than anything else. His lips kept going and his body quivered, and he tumbled when Casey pulled him the rest of the way into the house.

"It's like the computer froze," Sarah murmured, helping Chuck stay stable as Casey tucked him under one arm, keeping his eyes covered to keep him from flashing on anything else. It was nearly two minutes before the murmurings trailed off and he felt Chuck supporting his own weight again.

"Oh, my God," Chuck panted over and over, still hanging onto Casey with his sweaty palms. They might not make it upstairs at this rate.

"What did you see?" Sarah asked gently.

"Every symbol on this wall," Chuck panted. "It's somebody else. Trista Vero uses … visual … like the Intersect … oh, my …"

Chuck finally let go of Casey and sat heavily on the floor, burying his face in his hands so he wouldn't have to look at the walls. The computer ceased to matter. If Chuck was right, then any relevant information was written on the walls down here! Pulling out his phone, Casey started snapping pictures and recording everything.

"So if this is Trista Vero's place and these are her records, where is Trista Vero?" Walker asked.

"There's a room upstairs that's been cleaned out," Casey said. "There's a computer up there too."

"Chuck, can you walk?" Sarah asked.

"Do I have to open my eyes?" His response was muffled and he massaged his temples like his head ached. Casey hauled him up by the elbow, letting him keep his eyes closed.

"Did you hear that?" Walker asked, and he tensed and froze in response to her tone. Listening intently, Casey cataloged every sound, discerning the normal sounds of an old house from sounds of danger.

"What is it?" Chuck whispered, his eyes still pressed shut.

"Closet?" Casey said, nodding toward the door between the living room and the kitchen. He let go of Chuck, leaving the kid on the stair so he could cover Walker by the door. She looked back at him once, making sure he was ready, then yanked open the door.

It was somewhat anticlimactic.

The door led to a basement. Sarah leaned through to peek down the stairs and Casey came closer.

"Guys?" Chuck called from the stairs, eyes closed, hands in the air, waiting for guidance.

"Chuck, get out of here," Sarah said urgently. Casey didn't know what she saw, but he knew it was bad. He looked back at Chuck who had opened his eyes and gotten stuck in another flash, and he sprang into action, dashing across the room to retrieve his charge while Sarah flew toward the front door. Neither made it to their destination before the house exploded.

A loud blast rang from downstairs, rocking the floor above, creating a hole in the middle of the floor and a surge of flames. Walker fell through the splintered floorboards and Chuck tipped sideways nearly toppling Casey as Casey tried to maintain balance and find a way out. The concussion of the first shock rendered Casey's brain to jelly, but he grabbed onto Chuck's legs, pulling him off the stair and toward the wall where he hoped some kind of floor support remained.

"Sarah," Chuck whimpered, falling out of the flash as all the symbols triggering it were absorbed in flame. Casey wrapped his arm under Chuck's shoulders keeping low, hauling him toward the door, praying they could get out before the porch collapsed and they fell into the basement as well. There was no way he could go back for Agent Walker, and for reasons he'd never admit, that made him sad.

-----

Casey's head pounded, and acidy bile churned in the back of his throat as consciousness stabbed through him. He was in a vehicle – an ambulance he hoped, but from the smell, not likely. He was lying on his side on a broken vinyl seat, in pain, but not bound and gagged, which was good. His tongue tasted of blood, but in a dry, dusty way, telling him he'd fallen face first in the dirt at some point. He vaguely recalled that.

They'd crossed the front door and Chuck was moving on his own power at that point. Then the wooden porch had caught fire and Casey had rolled them into the hill rather than falling on the concrete steps. Then at the bottom of the steps, there was Emily. He started to speak to her and then … then what?

Peeking one eye open, he saw the back of a van with a prisoner cage between him and the front. The seat he was laying on was the only one. The other row of seats had been removed. Someone was sitting upright on the floor, leaning against the cage on the driver's side. By the way the light caught the wild mess of curly hair, Casey guessed it to be Chuck. Blinking twice, he scanned the rest of their prison, noting another form lying curled up on the floor.

Sarah!

Rolling quickly off the seat, Casey fell hard on the floor, banging his injured foot, sending pain shooting through his whole body. He heaved and vomited what little his stomach had to offer. It was minor withdraw and something he could work through, because he had no other choice. The fact that Sarah was here and breathing made him suspect he was having another hallucination, and Casey vaguely wished that he could hallucinate more desirable thing, like a destination vacation to a beach in the south pacific with Ilsa lying on top of him.

"Casey," Chuck croaked.

Ignoring Sarah for the moment, Casey crawled over to Chuck and checked him over. "Are you hurt?"

Chuck had the pads of his fingers pressed around his hairline and his hands cupped over his face without touching the skin. Casey swore under his breath and pulled away one of Chuck's hands. He'd been paralyzed in a flash when the house exploded, and probably hadn't even been able to close his eyes. Casey needed more light to truly assess the damage, but he knew it would be hard to explain when they went back to their cover lives.

"You should lie down," Casey said, backing up to give Chuck room.

"It hurts less sitting up," Chuck said. "I saw three of them before … I think he hit you. I fell when I was Tased. Dude, when Jeff got Tased, he said it wasn't so bad, but I bet he was just drunk."

"Safe bet," Casey interrupted, realizing that Chuck would just keep going otherwise. "Keep quiet 'til we know what's going on."

Satisfied that Chuck was at least well enough to sit up and talk, Casey turned to Sarah. By rights, she should be broken and burned to a crisp in the basement of that god forsaken house. Wiping the sweat from his face and fighting the haziness that came with drug withdraw, Casey looked from Chuck to Sarah.

"You see her too?"

Chuck furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Walker. Do you see her?"

Chuck shook his head miserably, pressing the heel of his hand to his face, then wincing. "It's hard to see anything. I can smell her, though. She smells pretty."

Chuck smiled stupidly, but that was sufficient confirmation for the moment that Agent Walker was really present. Casey scooted quietly across the van toward Sarah, keeping a wary eye up front. Had their captors heard him retching? Did they care?

In the dim light, Casey checked the damage to his partner. She'd been wearing a thick leather jacket which had been marred by splinters and fire, but not torn through. The ends of her hair were singed on one side and there were blisters on the palm of her left hand. Her forehead was a little red, and the collar of her jacket was melted, probably from using it to cover face.

"Walker," he whispered, leaning close and nudging her slightly.

She moved by reflex, swinging her arm, nearly backhanding him. He caught her hand easily, because he'd expected nothing less from her. Her eyes shot open, and she used his grip on her wrist as leverage to sit herself up, immediately scanning for danger and relaxing when she saw Chuck. A few seconds later came the cloud of foreboding when she realized her gun was missing.

"Mine's gone too."

"What happened?" she asked, the words inciting a coughing fit that ended with her hawking a mix of soot and mucus. At least there was no blood in the mix.

He shrugged, and backed away, taking opportunity to survey the rest of their cage. "I could ask you. Last I saw, you fell through the floor of a burning building. I'd given you up for dead."

She pursed her lips and remarked sardonically, "It wasn't my first time."

He snuck a few glances as she tested her muscles and touched the burns on her skin. Her face was pale, but she had that fierce determination in her eyes, and he knew she'd press through her injuries until they were either safe or dead.

The van hit a bump and Chuck yelped as his palms smacked against his injured face. Both Casey and Sarah froze when they heard activity from up front. Whoever was up there was concerned they were awake. Staying still and slinking to the shadows, they waited through the sounds of an unintelligible argument lasting half a minute. Then the cage rattled as one of their captors came to the back.

The form was silhouetted by the sunlight coming through the front window, but Casey recognized the outline of a weapon when he saw one. The person locked the cage once inside and looked into the darkness. A few more steps and Casey could take him out without the driver up front even knowing.

They hit a bump and Chuck whimpered again. It was all their captor needed to make sense of the shadows and raise the weapon. Casey launched forward at the same time Walker dove sideways, tackling Chuck out of the line of fire. Chuck screeched and Sarah went into a coughing fit. So much for taking out their assailant quietly.

He'd tackled a woman, from the feel of it, and an injured one at that. She went down without a peep, dropping the weapon without him even having to grab her hand and smash. She wasn't struggling or calling for help; she just let herself be taken. His fist was half cocked to knock her out, but he froze when he saw her face.

Emily!

Gasping, he had to fight the instinct to jump off her, and as soon as her hand was free, she pressed a finger to her lips warning him to be quiet. He wasn't sure why he trusted her. Sitting back on his knees, Casey passed the look to Sarah who had caught her breath but was still wheezing.

"Are you alright back there?" the driver called from the front. Casey looked threateningly at Emily and she looked right back at him with those piercing blue eyes that he now had to convince himself were not his own.

"Fine, Tom" Emily called curtly to the driver, waiting on the floor, not demanding that Casey let her up. A part of him worried that she seemed more afraid of the driver than him. She looked irritably at the brace on her shoulder and adjusted the sit of the strap, and Casey wondered if his tackled had nauseated her or busted her stitches.

"I told you to let the burn," the driver admonished.

"You said I should kill them," she countered critically, sounding a little less afraid.

"You still should," the man up front said.

With a growl, she wriggled out from under Casey and pressed her nose to the cage at the front. "I bought their lives and I've bought mine. Now shut up and do your job."  
The man laughed creepily in a way that made Casey want to pummel him for threatening his … whoever she was. Nothing was clear yet, except the simple fact that Emily had gone back into the fire to save Sarah.

-----

They had to speak softly so the driver couldn't hear. Emily gave them water, which helped clear the pounding in Casey's head, but his strength was waning fast and he had too much pride to lie down. Emily assured him they were close to their destination.

"Sorry I had to trade your rather elaborate arms collection for your lives," she said.

Casey winced for his lost fire arms.

"You're more than a sales man at the Buy More," she said slowly. "And you're more than some Los Angelino gun enthusiast stalking your neighbor. I can protect you as long as Tom doesn't know who you are."

Casey and Sarah exchanged a look.

"We're just people on the run, looking for help from Trista Vero," Sarah lied.

Emily glanced to the front of the van, then reached into her coat and pulled out Casey's NSA badge, but she tucked it away again when he reached for it.

"He'll kill you if I tell him," she threatened. Casey could see Agent Walker coiling for an attack, but he held out a hand to warn her back.

"What's the 'not killing us' option?" Chuck asked nervously.

"You need to be unconscious when he opens the door," Emily replied.

"Like hell," Sarah hissed and Chuck moaned.

"Karmen is following us in your car. The plan was to get you to this old gas station and leave you with your car. It's about three miles from the hospital," she said, then looked over at Chuck. "And trust me, your friend needs a hospital."

"Very true," Chuck agreed. He no longer cupped his hands over his face, but now he was pressing his palms against the back of his head.

"How are we getting to the hospital if we're unconscious?" Casey countered. He did not like any plan that rendered him unconscious because every time he woke up, Emily became a hallucination again and his sanity went to the blender. This time, he at least had witnesses.

"I'm sorry," she said, ducking her head timidly. "This was under control until you came along. I just wanted to destroy that house and disappear."

Casey's heart melted too much just from looking at her, and he was anchored to the past and all she represented. This had to be more than a stolen identity. She looked just like her mother. It was impossible and yet a joyous miracle and it fogged his mind so much he couldn't think.

"Come with us," Sarah offered. "We can protect you from him."

"Do I have your word on that?" Emily asked, coming to her knees as the van slowed. Casey looked at Sarah then at Emily and he nodded seriously.

"Play dead, please."

Sarah tugged Chuck so he was lying down, then she lay down in front, blocking Chuck's face because she knew he wasn't good at feigning unconsciousness. Casey lay down as well, resisting the urge to peek as the side door of the van opened and the setting sun made the backs of his eyelids burn red.

"Have you been scheming?" he heard the driver taunt. It was all he could do not to open his eyes and identify and quash the danger. He was a sitting duck.

"Tending," Emily answered. "Let's set them in their car and move on."

"I don't –"

"No! That was the agreement!" Emily demanded fervently. The rest of their argument muffled in struggle, and Casey's muscles tensed for a fight. The spring load triggered when Emily yelled "Trap!"

Casey jumped into action first, Sarah only a fraction of a step behind him. Diving out the door, he tackled the driver before the man even saw him coming. With a sharp head butt, he rendered the man unconscious. Looking around, Walker was already taking the second man out with a round-house kick. She stood over the unconscious man for a few panted breaths, and then fell to her knees, spewing soot and blood from her nose and mouth.

Three miles from a hospital, Emily had said, and just as promised, the Crown Vic was pulled up right behind the van. Finally, something had gone vaguely close to right! Panting from exertion and vomiting again, Casey staggered toward the car, clawing for consciousness long enough to save them all.

-----


	5. Walls Can Talk

Walls Can Talk

_(flashback: April 14, 1981)_

"Johnny!" John Casey's boss, Darryl, called as he pulled out of the dealer's lot in the brand new 1981 Crown Victoria, his arm resting on the sill of the rolled down window. "It's a company car!"

"I'll take care of her like she's my own," Casey assured with a broad grin. He loved this car and planned to buy it as soon as he'd saved enough money.

"Like last year's model," Darryl chided. Last year, he'd borrowed a car to drive the family to D.C. for Reagan's inauguration. Before that trip, he could make puppy eyes and have his pick of any vehicle on the lot, but since then Darryl had been getting less lenient about such things.

His boss leaned against the roof of the car and dropped his voice. "Lose the car seat, Johnny. Our insurance doesn't cover that kind of ride-along."

Casey looked at his daughter's car seat secured in the back and winced. He and Erika didn't have a car of their own, and taking the baby to the hospital on a bus was a hassle.

"I'll take it out before Monday," Casey promised.

Darryl raised an eyebrow, warning Casey against a weekend trip anywhere that would rack up the mileage. It was all they had as a family right now – those weekend trips to D.C. The Smithsonians were free.

Darryl looked unhappy, but he backed away from the car so Casey could drive off. Casey was starving and today was food stamp day, so there was bound to be something decently fresh on the table. It was a hard life, but he loved it to pieces. He spent his days surrounded by beautiful cars and his nights with his beautiful wife and daughter. They paid rent on a small house in a decent neighborhood just outside of Norfolk, only three blocks from his mother's house. Every other week, she'd break down in pity and come over armed with a pot roast or other food offering. His family was his strength, and he was looking forward to a weekend of lounging around and doing nothing (though there was probably a honey-do list a mile long waiting for him at home).

When he rounded the corner to his block, the car halted, along with his heart. He felt the ground shake like a train pummeling past, and the smoke rose from the lot where his house was tucked into a mass of shrubbery and trees. Gunning the engine, he raced toward his house, and parked the car haphazardly, hitting a trash can and scraping the curb. He jumped out of the car, hands raking through his hair in disbelief, stumbling toward the house with only one thought in mind.

_Please, God, let them not be in there._

Sirens and screams blended into the background as he rushed toward the door like fighter planes rush into battle, ready to plow through the flame and throw his body over theirs. If he could not save them, then he'd at least be with them.

The smoke grew thicker and the heat on his face slowed him down. He coughed and wheezed, looking for a way inside. The second floor buckled and caved inward on the first, pressing the flames skyward. Then someone grabbed his elbow and spun him away from the horrific sight.

"Johnny, you can't go in there!"  
He looked back at the house, engulfed in flame. He could barely breathe for the sting of ashes swirling in the air and choking his lungs. He turned back to the neighbor who'd stopped him.

"Where's Erika?" he demanded, pulling his collar over his nose and mouth so he could breathe. The neighbor shook his head helplessly, but followed when Casey took off running.

"Erika!" he shouted, circling to the side of the house, searching for a window that did not have flames coming out of it. He ran to the back of the house and could see flames eating through the den. Emily's swing was burning.

"Erika!" he cried again. "Emily!"

He tried to go in again, but his neighbor crossed in front, physically tackling him to the ground and rolling them away from the spreading flames. Glass exploded behind them, spraying a shower of shattered pieces over their bodies. Looking up, Casey saw their vacuum cleaner sitting on the lawn, a few feet out the window it had just crashed through. The flames whooshed outward to follow the path of fresh oxygen, and then like a dream, they came running out, wrapped in a burning blanket. Erika yelped in pain with every step, but there was no sound of a baby cry.

Not caring about the consequences, he tackled the burning blanket, rolling until the flames went out. Gently, he kept telling himself. He could feel how her arms were cocooned around the baby, but everything was going red as his own skin covered with burns just from touching her smoldering body. Ripping the blanket away, he jumped back in horror. Erika's skin was too burnt to touch and Emily, while not burned, was pale blue and not breathing. A fireman ran over, extracting Emily from her mother's arms and starting CPR. Casey fell on his knees next to his beloved wife, trying to see her face through the blackened skin, frozen in a scream. She'd been running not ten seconds ago.

"Somebody help!" he screamed, but when they came, they were helping him, because he was burned and Erika was already dead.

_(end flashback)_

-----

Casey stood in the observation lounge watching the surgery on Agent Walker. Seeing her fall through the floor of that burning house had brought so much back of the day he'd lost Erika. It wasn't a stirring in his soul, but rather a fresh visit to that burnt patch of ground where his dead and cremated soul was scattered and forgotten. He couldn't count the number of times he'd told himself, if only he'd been there, Erika and Emily would've lived. Days like today, when everyone got out alive, only convinced him more of that truth.

Chuck came into the lounge, but didn't do more than peek out the blinds into the operating room. He was the squeamish type, but he'd proven his worth on more than one occasion. Chuck's injuries were less severe than they'd seemed at first, which would make things significantly easier to explain to his friends and family. His cuts would heal in a few days and didn't even need stitches. The doctor had taped a patch over his left eye and he'd never have 20/20 vision again, but all things considered, he was lucky.

A team of NSA agents had gone to clean the mess of Tom and Karmen, but Casey's guns were still missing, as were all their phones. He'd been issued a replacement phone, but the battery had died while General Beckman was still chewing him out and he didn't have the inclination to recharge it since the General was the only one with this number.

"You know how they say walls can talk," Chuck opened. It sounded like an interesting start, so Casey listened. Actually, he always listened to Chuck, he just never encouraged the conversation. He wasn't supposed to be making friends on this assignment,

"Tristavee's walls are still talking. It's like my ears are ringing, but inside my head. They go on and on."

The photos of Trista Vero's walls were on his lost phone, but Chuck seemed to have taken in an awful lot. "You go on and on, but you don't see me complaining."

"Yes I do," Chuck said. "Frequently."

"Major Casey."

Casey turned to the Lieutenant looking in from the door.

"You wanted to know when the girl woke."

Technically, Beckman had pulled him off this case, but having a reputation as a killer opened certain doors. He'd wanted to talk to Walker first, but Emily – Tristavee – whoever she was – was first out of surgery. When he walked out of the observation lounge, Chuck followed him like a stray puppy follows a man with a cheeseburger. There were a million reasons to tell the kid to stay back, but Casey was just reacquainting himself with his own sanity, and having a shadow helped significantly.

-----

The hospital room was white with splashes of that weird sea green that was supposed to be soothing, but was really just a cliché hospital color. Emily lay on the bed, bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat, but swept messily to the side, away from her eyes. They'd hand-cuffed her to the bed, but she'd already picked the lock and was fiddling with the cuffs dispiritedly. The bed was angled so she was sitting up and her arm was strapped to her torso to keep her from agitating the freshly stitched wound on her shoulder.

Casey entered quietly, motioned Chuck to stay in the corner and keep quiet, and then closed the door for privacy. Emily kept her eyes very firmly on her own hands.

"You blew up the house," Casey opened, not bothering with pleasantries. "Why?"

Her lip twitched slightly, but otherwise there was no response. She stopped fidgeting with the hand-cuffs, dropped her arms by her side, and rested back against the inclined bed.

"The NSA agent is going to question you later," Casey warned. "He won't be as friendly as me."

She sighed and turned her head toward the opposite wall, he shoulders slumped with the weight of hopelessness. Her depression seemed so extreme and he wanted so badly to know who she was and why he felt compelled to reach out to her.

"Is there something specific I should mention … or omit?" she asked wearily. Casey's jaw tensed, but he couldn't say he was surprised. She'd already shed her past life and was taking on a new identity, asking him to shape their shared experience so no one would see through the lie.

"I can't advise you if you don't tell me what you know."

She pressed her lips together, daring to look at him and averting her eyes just as quickly. "You'll still protect me?"

"That depends."

She nodded, as though she'd expected the threats and betrayal. "That house led me to you, and you got me shot."

"You got me poisoned," Casey countered.

"Tased."

"Blown up."

She didn't laugh, because as much as it was a one-up competition, it wasn't funny. Finally Emily sighed and rubbed her face. "So we're even, then?"

Casey folded his arms crossly. "Where are the guns and our phones?"

"You're fortunate your collection was so extensive," she answered, adopting a superior attitude. "Your guns were traded for three lives and are probably in Mexico right now having their serial numbers filed off. I threw your phones into the fire to protect your identities."

Casey harrumphed and raised an eyebrow.

"Right," Casey sneered. "You tossed the phones in the fire, but you kept my badge."

"In case you betrayed me," she answered simply. "That badge is tied to you and your government. That phone betrays every one in your address book. I suppose I was more concerned for their identities."

Emily swung her feet over the side of the bed and padded barefoot to the TV, considering the buttons. Then swooning slightly, she leaned against the wall with her head buried in her arm. The hospital gown fell off her shoulder, revealing the tattoo of the dove with the tear drop.

"Please, tell me who you are," Casey begged. "And don't say Emily."

"The tattoo," Chuck murmured, causing both Casey and Emily to look at him. "You're too young to be Trista Vero, but somehow you are her."

"I was," Emily agreed. "Now I've been compromised and the name must be passed on."

"Sounds very 'Dread Pirate Roberts,'" Chuck commented, then cocked his head. "But you are Emily, aren't you? Or you were, but you've had a lot of names since then."

There were times Casey would give anything to be inside Chuck's head and have all that information come in a flash.

"Fourteen," she said. "I've had fourteen unique identities. Fifteen now, though I don't know who I'll be tomorrow. Emily was the first. I remember when I was five, I'd just learned how to spell my name and I was so proud of myself, and the next day, everything changed."

"You said the photo was in Vero's attic," Casey checked. The whole concept nagged at him.

Emily's face went stone cold and expressionless. "Please tell me you destroyed it."

"Burned," Casey acknowledged, nearly choking on the words. "But you aren't the girl in the photo."

"It said Emily and Johnny," she whimpered. "Everything seemed to fit."

Emily paced the room, using the wall for support, alternately pressing her palm to her chest and clutching her stomach. She was hurting, but she didn't want to sit, and he understood the fidgetiness, so he wasn't going to tell her to go back to bed.

"I just wanted to know where I came from," she said softly. "But if your mother is like mine – running from her past – you can't go poking around with a stick and expect not to get shot, I guess."

Casey stayed silent a moment, thinking. "If you tell me the aliases you know, I can run some checks."

She circled the room again, and then stopped just inches in front of him looking him square in the eye, making him shudder. "You're not the first person to tell me I'm supposed to be dead. But in all the other cases, I had to say who I thought I was first. I never told you who I was. You looked at me, and you knew who I was supposed to be."

"I know," Casey said, his throat getting tight. "It's just impossible."

"Casey," Chuck spoke up. "She's not Emily Mareau. She's Emily Grunberg, born December 25, 1982."

Emily turned sharply, then doubled over in pain and staggered to the bed. "You know me?" she asked breathlessly, looking simultaneously fearful and grateful at hearing her name acknowledged in the open air.

Casey's eyes widened and he stumbled backwards himself, finding a chair and sinking into it. A soft stream of curses fell from his lips as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

"Jennifer had a child?" It was a question as much as anything else, because he never knew this girl was conceived, though he had no doubts about when, where, and how. The anniversary of his grief, the bottle of scotch, and the sister of his late wife all combined in a moment of weakness and sorrow, and when he'd woken the next day, Casey knew he could never recover from the tragedy, so he'd bid his life farewell and gone to the recruiting office. There was trouble stirring in Lebanon at the time, and maybe he could die fighting. Why hadn't Jennifer told him?!

"Yes," Emily said, tears filling her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. "Yes, Jennifer Grunberg. Who did you think I was?"

"Jennifer was my wife's sister," he replied before he could stop himself. It was dangerous for them to be connected in this way, and as much as he'd needed to know, he wished he could un-know for the sake of both their lives.

"So that means you're my uncle." She tested the idea in her mind and the words in her mouth. There was so much hope in her voice and she sounded just like … Jennifer. She made more sense as a mixture of him and Jennifer.

He nodded, not bothering to correct her. If Chuck had known the truth, he'd have said, but he kept quiet, so the secret was safe for now.

"Until tomorrow's identity takes hold," Casey told her. She nodded, but the weight of depression was gone and she beamed through her tears.

"This is worth getting shot for," she said, and Casey had to agree. Jennifer had named her Emily. His daughter had a namesake and a half sister!

-----

Casey sat at the table, setting up his equipment to clean and inspect the new weapons he'd been issued. He'd pulled up a chair to prop his foot under the table, even though his foot was healed up enough not to need it. It made Chuck feel guilty, and when Chuck felt guilty, he usually brought pie as a peace offering.

Casey had never lost a limb before. It was an irony. Before he'd entered the service, he'd lost heart and soul and been completely gutted of his humanity, but he remained physically whole. Now that he had this assignment little bits of his soul kept re-growing, only to be scraped out again – Ilsa, his sensei… now he'd lost a toe – traded it, it seemed, for the emergence of a daughter he never knew he'd had.

With Emily safely tucked into a new identity, Casey was finding it easier each day to disconnect from the pestering visits of heart and reverie. He'd told the General about his kinship to Emily Grunberg, because it afforded him much leniency in the case. The General had made a condescending remark about an ill-spent youth and asked if he'd sown any more wild oats that she should know about, but also promised to personally oversee the girl's protection.

"That man we brought in, Karmen, confessed to the poison dart that hit you," Walker said, coming down the stairs into castle. She'd been released from the hospital a week ago and wasted no time getting back to her snarky self.

"Why would he shoot Emily, though?" Casey asked. "She hired him to protect her."

"He was protecting her," Sarah explained. "The shooter was a Fulcrum agent. Tom and Karmen took out the shooter and left evidence on the body to lead anyone who found it on a two week wild goose chase to Prague by way of New Jersey."

"All the touristy cities," Casey commented, though he worried about Fulcrum lurking outside of Chuck's apartment. Casey planned to used Bartowski's sister's wedding as leverage to get Chuck to move.

"Two weeks is more than enough time to disappear and establish a new identity, if you happen to be in the business."

"Which they are," Casey said. "Did we tie their prints to anything?"

Sarah shook her head. "Strangely enough, their paper work got lost in transit, as did they."

"How do you escape Federal lock down?" Casey asked, abandoning his guns and jumping to his feet, wanting to check the report for himself.

"Impersonating an agent," she said. "Your badge number came up in the report."

Casey groaned irritably, even though enough questions were answered to keep him satisfied. Identities were their business, and he never expected to see Karmen or Tom again.

Bartowski came down stairs next, dressed for work, but wearing dark glasses to protect his eyes from the light. He said he wasn't getting headaches anymore and the glasses were a fashion statement, but Walker didn't buy the excuse and they'd been handing off every potential mission over the last few days on account of it.

"Chuck, the General sent some documents to look over," Sarah said, handing Chuck a stack of papers she'd printed earlier that morning, then heading up the stairs to the store front. "Let me know if you flash on anything."

He took the papers and sat opposite of Casey's guns, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands as he scanned the stack slowly. He didn't take the sun glasses off. Casey perused the report from Washington and decided there wasn't much more to it than what Walker had just told him, so he checked his e-mail and his favorite comics, then went back to inspecting the weapons.

"I have a question," Chuck said almost as soon as Casey sat.

"Did you flash?" Casey asked.

"Not exactly," he said. "Tristavee's walls are still talking."

"Anything relevant to that intel you're looking over?" There were too many identities that needed protecting to risk putting Chuck's flashes into writing when it came to Trista Vero's house.

"Well, you said Emily Mareau and Emily Grunberg are cousins because they're moms are sisters."

Casey didn't say anything. He checked around, seeing on the monitor that Walker was upstairs serving frozen yogurt. He still didn't want to be talking about this with Chuck.

"We've been debriefed. We can no longer discuss this," Casey dismissed.

"She looks like you," Chuck said quickly.

"Thanks, Daredevil," Casey said sardonically, gathering his weapons off the table and cleaning up the smudges of gun oil. "Is there a part of 'not talking' you don't understand?"

Chuck shook his head and went back to scanning the reports. They could never speak of it, but for some reason, it made a difference that Chuck knew the truth. He would almost certainly tell Agent Walker what he suspected, but secrets like that were safe among the three of them. After 20 years alone, he'd found a friend, a partner, and a daughter. It was dangerous having these connections and it would get him killed one day. But it was worth it.

-----


End file.
